12 years earlier ...

Marie Catherine Murphy stood outside apartment 1B and knew something was wrong. It was already 8:50 a.m, Marie was running late, and her friend Maura just wouldn't open the door. In itself, it was nothing unusual for Maura to oversleep, one of the reasons for their thick friendship, but otherwise, she at least answered the door. Though often still in her pajamas, she did so with an unbeatable excuse, as well as two large mugs of hot coffee and a couple of Stella Dora chocolate chip cookies. They'd been carpooling to college for three years now, and Marie couldn't remember a single time Maura hadn't answered the door or waited for her. No matter how late Marie had arrived to pick her up.

An older lady had let her into the building, and by now Marie had been ringing the doorbell continuously for at least five minutes. She knew that Maura and Michael had gone out last night, and at first she thought that maybe Michael was with Maura and they had both overslept. Marie paused for a moment at the thought, the main thing was that Michael didn't open the door for her in his boxers. Coffee or not, Marie could well do without that sight. But when after five minutes of ringing the doorbell still nothing happened, Marie started to get nervous. She tried peeking through Maura's mail slot, but it was either taped shut or nailed shut.

Marie went back outside and lit a cigarette. Upstairs, behind his windowpane, she saw Maura's odd neighbor staring down into the yard, black coffee mug in hand. He was really disgusting, so half-naked with his thick glasses and the sinister grin on his face. Marie got goosebumps. She saw that Maura's curtains were drawn and the blinds in the bedroom were closed. Her car wasn't in its parking space, and Michael's BMW was nowhere to be seen.

Don't panic. Surely everything would be all right.

She walked around the brick building to the back where Maura's kitchen window was. The window was closed, but the curtains were open. Marie was only 5'2", and the windowsill was about twenty-five inches above her. She sighed. She had to work in the afternoon, so today, of all days, she wore a skirt and high heels. As she put the handbag on the floor, she cursed herself for not putting on a pantsuit and sensible flat shoes, then stubbed out her cigarette. She climbed the low wall by the basement stairs, and from there she stood with one leg on the garbage can and pulled her stocky body up the windowsill. She clung to the ledge so as not to lose her balance, and with it her young life, and peered inside. In front of her on the kitchen table was Pete's cage covered with a cloth. Dishes were piled up in the sink to the left. Through the kitchen door, she could see into the hallway and into the living room, where she recognized the coffee table under a pile of newspapers. Marie felt a little reassured. A tidy apartment would have been a guarantee that something was wrong. Instead, it seemed like Maura just hadn't come home last night.

She probably went with Michael to his place. She spent the night at his place and forgot to call me. Probably stopped by Dunkin Donuts this morning and he dropped her off at college with a mug of hot coffee and a Boston Cream Doughnut, where she's now cramming for the exam to become a famous lawyer while I'm here hanging my fat ass in the wind and staring into her kitchen mess like a complete idiot.

Now she was getting annoyed. Besides, she was late for the federal law test. She was in the middle of a dangerous descent from the dumpster when a thought suddenly flashed through her mind. If Maura didn't come home last night, who was covering Pete's cage? She hesitated for a moment, and then something else occurred to her, something she thought she saw on the carpet in the hallway, just outside the kitchen. Something compelled her to turn back and look more closely. So she climbed up on the trash can once again and pressed her nose against the glass. She shielded her eyes with her hands and blinked. It took her a few seconds to realize that the dark spots she was staring at were footprints. It took a few more seconds for her to realize that they looked like they were made of blood.

And then Marie Catherine Murphy fell off the trash can and started screaming.

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"We have a pulse," barked a voice in the darkness.

"Is she breathing?" A second voice.

"Barely. I'm giving her oxygen. She's in shock."

"My God. Blood all over the place. Where is all this coming from?" Another voice.

"You better ask where it didn't come from! She's badly bruised. I think the heaviest bleeding is vaginal. Probably internal injuries. Man, that psycho really went to town on her."

"Cut the restraints, Mei."

A fourth voice. Deep, heavy New York accent. "Slow down, guys, the cord is evidence. Don't break it. Put on some gloves. Forensics has to bag and label everything." Apparently, the room was now full of people.

"Jesus, her wrists are all shredded." A horrified, utterly distraught voice.

Commands squawked and barked from police radios. Shrill sirens, more than one, grew louder. The click of a camera, the hiss of a flash.

Now angry voices. "Look out, look out! Hey, Mei, if you can't handle this, get up and get out. This is the wrong time to fold."

There was silence for a few seconds, then voice number one again, "Put in an IV and give her morphine. Call the trauma unit at Jamaica Hospital and tell them we have a twenty-four-year-old Caucasian female with multiple stab wounds, possible internal bleeding, most likely rape, severe shock."

"Okay, okay, now lift her up carefully. Gently. On my count. One, two, three."

Violent, biting pain surged through her body. "My God. That poor girl. Does anyone know her name?"

"Her friend outside says her name is Maura. Maura Isles. She's a law student at St. John's."

The voices quieted, and the darkness swallowed her again.

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When Maura opened her eyes, a bright light blinded her. For a moment, she thought she was dead and in heaven, perhaps standing before her maker in a few moments.

"Please follow the light." A small flashlight moved before her eyes. There was a numbing smell of disinfectant and chlorine, and she realized she was in the hospital.

"Maura? Maura?" The young doctor in the white coat shined the flashlight in her eyes again. "I'm glad you're waking up. How are you feeling?" Maura read his name tag. Lawrence Broder, M.D.

Stupid question, Maura thought. She tried to answer, but her tongue was heavy and dry in her mouth. She could only manage a whisper. "Not good." Everything hurt her. She looked at her arms, both bandaged with thick white bandages, and saw the tubes attached everywhere. An excruciating pain throbbed in her abdomen and kept getting worse.

Michael sat in a chair in the corner. Bent over, his elbows propped on his lap, his hands folded under his chin. He looked worried. Through the window, she could see the sky, turning pink and orange, twilight. It looked like a sunset.

At the door stood another man in green scrubs. Maura assumed he too was a doctor.

"You're in the hospital, Maura. You've been through a pretty traumatic experience." Dr. Broder paused and looked around. The three men exchanged self-conscious glances. "Do you know why you're here, Maura? Can you remember what happened?"

Maura's gaze blurred. A tear rolled down her cheek. She nodded slowly. The clown's face reappeared in front of her.

"You were the victim of a crime last night. A sex crime. Your friend found you this morning, and the paramedics brought you here, to Jamaica Hospital in Queens." He hesitated and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, obviously uncomfortable. Now he spoke faster. "You suffered severe injuries. Your uterus was severely compromised, and you have numerous internal traumas. You lost a lot of blood. Unfortunately, because of this, Dr. Reubens was forced to perform an emergency hysterectomy to stop the bleeding." He pointed to the doctor in green holding down the fort at the door, his head bowed as he avoided Maura's gaze. "That was the most serious injury, so that was already the worst news. Otherwise, you have cuts all over your body, for which we called in a plastic surgeon, he sutured them so that the scars will be kept to a minimum. The injuries are not life-threatening, though, and the good news is you'll be back on your feet completely."

That was already the worst news? That's it? That's all guys? Maura looked at the three men. All of them, Michael included, avoided her gaze, looking away, seeming to inspect unseen objects on the floor.

Her voice was little more than a whisper.

"A hysterectomy?" Even the words hurt as they crossed her lips. "Does that mean I can't have children?"

Lawrence Broder, M.D., shifted his weight back to his other leg and frowned. "Regrettably, you won't be able to carry a fetus to term, that's right." She realized that Mr. Broder, M.D., would have preferred to end this conversation immediately. But he continued hastily, nervously fiddling with the flashlight. "A hysterectomy is a major procedure, and you'll have to stay in the hospital for a few days. Usually, the recovery time is six to eight weeks. We'll start limited physical therapy tomorrow and gradually expand it. Are you having abdominal pain now?"

Maura nodded, whimpering.

Dr. Broder motioned the silent Dr. Reubens to the bedside. Then he pulled the curtain closed, blocking Michael's view, and flipped back the sheet. Maura saw white bandages around her stomach, her breasts. Dr. Reubens gently patted her abdomen, glowing darts shooting through her body. He nodded, then said to Dr. Broder, not Maura, "The swelling is normal. The stitches look fine."

Dr. Broder nodded back and smiled at Maura. "I'll tell the nurse to increase the dose of morphine in the IV. It should get better then." He covered her again and stepped from one foot to the other. "There are two police detectives waiting outside who would like to talk to you. Are you well enough to talk to them?"

Maura hesitated, then nodded.

"I'll send them in." He pulled back the curtain. Then Dr. Broder and the taciturn Dr. Reuben marched toward the door, visibly relieved that the conversation was over. As Dr. Broder reached for the handle, he paused once more. "You've been through a terrible thing, Maura. We're all here for you." He smiled kindly and walked out.

Victim of a sex crime. Hysterectomy. No children. The nightmare was a reality. The words came far too quickly, there was too much information for her to absorb. Images of the clown with the distorted smile, his naked body, the bare toothed blade flashed in her mind. He had known about her. He knew her nickname. He knew her favorite restaurant. He knew she had skipped training class. He'd said he watched her, always.

Don't worry, Maura. I'll always be around you. Watching you. Waiting.

She closed her eyes, remembering the knife. Of the pain that had flooded through her when he made the first cut. Michael came to the bedside now and grabbed her hand.

"It's going to be okay, Maura. I'm here with you." He spoke softly.

She opened her eyes again and realized he wasn't looking at her, but past her, at some spot on the wall. "I talked to your mom, your parents are on their way. They're arriving tonight." His voice sounded choked, and he exhaled slowly, audibly. "I wish you'd let me stay at your place last night! If only I had stayed! I would have killed that sick bastard. I would have -" He bit his lip, his gaze wandering over the silhouette of her body beneath the pristine white hospital sheet. "My God, what did he do to you ... that goddamn pervert -" His voice choked, he clenched his fists and turned to the window.

I wish you'd let me spend the night at your place last night.

A soft knock interrupted them, and the door opened slowly. The hallway was bustling with activity. It was probably visiting time. A small portly woman with frizzy carrot-colored hair and an out-of-fashion red and black pantsuit entered. She wore no makeup, had only tried to hide the dark circles under her eyes with concealer, but had applied it too thickly. She looked sallow and weary. Too many lines stood out on her face for her age; Maura estimated her to be about thirty-five. Following her was an older man in a cheap blue suit who towered over her by at least a head. He looked like he was about to retire; he had strategically combed his thin gray hair over his bald spots. He smelled of cold smoke. Both of them looked tired. They were an odd pair; a hot dog and a hamburger, Maura couldn't help thinking. "Hello, Maura. I'm Detective Amy Harrison. I'm with the Queens County Special Victims Unit, which handles sexually violent crimes. This is my partner, Detective Benny Sears. I know this is very hard for you, but we need to ask you a few questions about what happened last night while your memory is still fresh."

Detective Harrison looked over at Michael, who was standing by the window. There was a pause.

Then Michael came over and extended his hand to her. "I'm Mike Decker. I'm Maura's boyfriend."

Detective Harrison shook his hand and nodded. She turned to Maura. "Maura, if it's easier for you, Mike can be here. But only if that's what you really want."

"Of course I'll stay with her." Michael's voice sounded sharp.

Maura nodded slowly.

Detective Sears smiled at her, then signified to Michael that he could stay, sniffed, popped his gum, and pulled out his pad and pen. He moved to stand behind Detective Harrison at the foot of the hospital bed, who was sitting in a chair at Maura's side. Now he towered over his partner by almost three feet.

Detective Harrison cleared his throat. "Let's get started. Did you know the person who did this to you?"

Maura shook her head.

"Was it one perpetrator or was it more than one?"

Slowly, "Just one."

"Do you think you'd recognize him if you see him? I'll send a sketch artist to work with you -"

Tears ran down Maura's cheeks. She shook her head, her voice barely audible, "No. He had a mask on."

Michael emitted a noise that sounded like a snort. He hissed, "That goddamn perverted bastard -"

"Please, Mr. Decker -" Detective Harrison's tone became sharp.

Detective Sears didn't make a face. "What kind of mask?"

"A rubber clown mask. I couldn't see his face."

Detective Harrison continued more gently. "It's all right, Maura. Just tell us what you remember. Take your time."

Maura could no longer hold back the tears, they streamed down her face. She began to shake all over her body, first slightly, then more violently, she was powerless against it. "I was asleep. In my dream, I suddenly heard this voice. I think he called me Beany. I tried to wake up, I tried." She put her hands to her face and saw her bandaged wrists. Then she remembered the rope and winced. "But he grabbed my hands, and then he tied me up, and I couldn't ... I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't scream ... He put something in my mouth." She touched her lips, still tasting something dry, slick, heavy on her tongue. She gagged, and again she couldn't breathe. "He put something in my mouth, and then he had my arms and my legs ... And I couldn't move at all. I just couldn't -" She looked away from Detective Harrison and sought Michael's hand to hold on, but he was standing at the window with his back to her, fists clenched. I wish you'd let me spend the night at your place last night!

Detective Harrison glanced in Michael's direction, then put a hand on Maura's arm. "A lot of rape victims blame themselves, Maura. But you have to know it wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could have done or not done that could have prevented it."

"He knew everything. He knew where my candles were, there, in the drawer. He lit my candles, and I ... I just couldn't move!"

"Did he say anything to you, Maura? Do you remember what he said?"

"Oh, God. Yes, yes, yes, that was the very worst. He talked to me all the time like he knew me." She shook and began to sob. "He knew everything, everything. He said he would always be watching me, he said he would always be around me. Always. He knew I was on vacation in Mexico last year; he knew Michael was with me Tuesday night; he knew my mother's name, he knew what my favorite restaurant was, he even knew I hadn't gone to the gym. He knew everything!" A pain in her breasts ran through her, and she immediately remembered why. "He had a knife, he just cut the pajamas off of me, and then he ... he cut me open. I could feel him slicing me, and I couldn't move. Then he was on top of me and ... Michael, please, I couldn't fight back! I tried, all the time, but I just couldn't move. I just couldn't get him off me!" She screamed until her voice was hoarse.

Detective Harrison sighed and gently stroked Maura's arm. She said again that Maura shouldn't blame herself. Detective Sears exhaled audibly and shook his head. Then he opened to the next page of the notepad and popped the gum in his mouth once again.

Sobbing, Maura looked around for Michael, but he was still standing by the window, fists clenched, his back turned to her.

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It was pouring rain when Maura was released from Jamaica Hospital on Tuesday afternoon. Just six days after she was wheeled in unconscious on a gurney, Dr. Broder came into her room overflowing with flowers and smilingly told Maura that she was now 'fine' and that she could go home that afternoon. This news had frightened her, she had been trembling all day, and her pulse was racing as the time of her release drew nearer.

Her mother had reluctantly followed Maura's advice and had studied the obituaries in the New York Times instead of the real estate ads. Within two days she had found a two-bedroom apartment for Maura that way, on the eighteenth floor of the North Shore Towers in Lake Success, across the Queens-Nassau County line. A ninety-year-old widow had shared the apartment with her seventeen-year-old cat, Tibby. Tibby had been unlucky: the widow had died before him. With the help of two-hundred-dollar bills hot off the press, Maura was able to move in right away. Her mother said it was pretty, by New York standards.

Maura had decided never to set foot in Apartment 1B on Rocky Hill Road again. Ever. Nor would she ever set foot in Bayside again. Except for Pete the budgie, she didn't want to see anything from her old apartment again, especially anything from the bedroom. She begged her parents from her hospital bed to sell, burn or give away everything. They should do what they wanted with it, the main thing was nothing, and no one, Michael and her parents included, ever drove in a direct route from her old apartment to her new one.

She was aware that Michael thought she was plenty paranoid. It seemed very far-fetched to him that the rapist waited and watched and followed them all to find out where Maura moved. Michael thought she was right to leave Bayside, but he didn't understand why she didn't just move in with him. And he basically refused to give up his Manhattan apartment.

"Maura, do you have any idea how hard it is to find a rent-controlled apartment here?" he asked. "I've had to look for it for a year and a half!"

She agonized over telling him her reasoning. "Michael, he knows everything. He knows everything about me, and he knows everything about you. He probably shadowed me on the way to your house, or he followed you all the way home. Or maybe he's one of your neighbors, and he followed me from your apartment. And maybe you're willing to call his bluff for your stupid rent control, but I'm not. And I will never enter your apartment again. Ever. You have to get that!"

It had been a heated conversation. Too heated. She had burst into tears, and he had sighed very audibly. To comfort her, he promised to 'do what he could,' but he couldn't possibly move out right away. So he suggested that they find her a new apartment first. He went out of the room to make a phone call, and after ten minutes he returned and announced that he had to go to the office now. Two hours later, a bouquet of flowers arrived with a letter that simply said, 'With love, Michael.' That had been on Friday. He had been working all weekend.

So Maura's mom had found her the apartment in the North Shore Towers, with windows high above the street. It offered a single woman in the big city all the perks: a doorman, double security locks, an alarm system with motion detectors, and a state-of-the-art intercom. On Sunday, her parents had brought over the TV, kitchen table and chairs, and Pete. They reordered everything else at Sears. On Monday, the Salvation Army pulled up on Rocky Hill Road in a big red truck. Two muscular workers tore up the remnants of yellow police tape still hanging on the door of Apartment 1B, and gratefully heaped everything that was left of Maura's former life onto the back of the truck. On the empty living room floor, they left a receipt. And so, on a rainy gray Monday afternoon, under the gaze of a few curious housemates, Maura's life in Bayside, Queens, quietly came to an end. Her father was still sending her greetings from Marvin.

Her parents, of course, had tried to persuade her to move back to Boston. Anywhere in Boston. Anywhere, as long as it wasn't New York City. Maura had approached Michael about it, but he had immediately waved it off.

His career, her future employer, his family, their life together, it was all in New York. So Maura had lied to her parents, telling them that she and Michael were toying with the idea, but first, she had to take the exam in New York and start the new job she had already firmly committed to. Then she lifted to a richly hollow-sounding speech: She wouldn't let this madman destroy her life and run her out of town. Blah, blah, blah. Maura wasn't so sure she meant what she said, either.

In truth, she didn't know what she really wanted anymore. What had seemed important to her just five days ago now seemed completely insignificant. The exam, the job, the engagement. Enviously, she watched from her hospital bed through her television as the world around her continued to spin as if nothing had happened. How people struggled through rush hour traffic in the morning and back home in the evening, fully occupied with just getting there and back. And the newscasters busily reporting the daily monotony as if these events had any news value.

Please avoid the construction on the Long Island Expressway. In the direction of Manhattan, divert to the Grand Central Parkway. Tom Cruise and other stars showed up at a Hollywood premiere in Los Angeles. Again, a ship carrying Cuban refugees was spotted off Key West. Please donate to the world's hungry children. The weekend weather is expected to bring lingering thunderstorms; sorry for the light sailors among you! But you'll have better luck next weekend, where it looks mostly bright so far.

Maura would have loved to scream out loud.

The policemen who had guarded her door during the first two days were gone, probably had to attend to a newer victim. Detective Sears had assured her the guard had been pulled because she was no longer in "acute danger." And although police were "actively pursuing the perpetrator" and "following numerous leads," Detective Harrison had stopped her daily visits to Maura's hospital room on Monday, calling instead to hear how she was doing. Maura suspected the calls would also run out in a few days when her case was pushed aside to make way for new arrivals.

Her entire hospital room was filled with fragrant bouquets of flowers sent by well-meaning friends, acquaintances, and colleagues, but Maura still couldn't bring herself to call anyone. She didn't want to see any of her friends except Marie. She didn't want them to see the bandages and then imagine the horrible things that could have caused all those injuries. She didn't want to talk about that night, but she also felt unable to make trivial small talk with the curious. And otherwise, she realized, she didn't have much to say. What she would have given to be able to turn back time and just be Maura again, with her everyday problems and little burdens; but, of course, she knew that wasn't possible. She hated him most of all for that. He had stolen her life, and she didn't know how to get it back.

Michael holed himself up in the office, only coming in for an hour on Monday during lunch. Of course, he thought hospitals were ghastly. And the sight of their bandages and IVs and medications and doctors and the physical therapist made him frustrated and helpless. Yes, the whole incident, as he called it, made him angry. But somehow it had become pretty indifferent to her how he felt. It made her at least as angry that he was going on with his life as before, as if nothing had happened, when in reality, everything had happened and nothing would ever be the same again, for either of them.

Today was Tuesday, and she was allowed to go home. Although she had thought she wanted to, she had been shaking all over since Dr. Broder had given her the news. Michael was supposed to pick her up, but then he was stuck in a difficult conference all afternoon. Instead, she was now being taken by her mom and Marie in a wheelchair to the exit, where her dad was waiting in a rental car. She was able to walk again, but hospital rules dictated the wheelchair until she was in the car.

The elevator door opened on the first floor, and Marie pushed Maura into the busy lobby. There were people everywhere. Old people sat on benches in the corner, police officers leaned against the information desk. Exasperated parents held crying children, and nurses and hospital staff bustled back and forth between the hallways and the elevators.

Maura quickly scanned the hall for any sign of him. Some people eyed her with lazy interest in her wheelchair. She paid close attention to their eyes, their movements. Some were engrossed in conversation, others had their heads buried in newspapers, and still, others were simply staring ahead. Nervously, Maura scanned the crowd. Her heart was racing, and she could feel the adrenaline rushing through her veins. But the sad and bitter truth was that it could have been anyone she saw here before her. Without the mask, she wouldn't recognize him.

The small step from the wheelchair into the car chased searing pain through her abdomen. Marie and her mom helped her as she carefully climbed into the back seat with the bag of prescription medication. Through the rain-soaked window, she looked out into the large parking lot. It was across busy Northern Boulevard, and then they would merge onto the Long Island Expressway, which was always busy. So many faces, so many strangers. He could be anywhere. He could be anyone.

"You sitting good back there, Honey?" She didn't answer right away. "Beany?" her dad asked gently.

"Yeah, Dad, ready to go." Hesitantly, she then added softly, "Daddy, please don't ever call me that again."

He seemed sad. Then he nodded soberly and watched his daughter turn her exhausted face back to the window. He drove off, winding his way from the hospital driveway across the parking lot to Atlantic Avenue. Jamaica Hospital faded into the pouring rain. And all through the journey to her new apartment in Lake Success, past countless cars, past countless strangers, Maura stared out the window.

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Every morning, Maura would look at herself in the mirror and say, "You'll have to get through today, and I'm sure it'll get better after tomorrow". But it seemed to get worse and worse. Though the wounds healed and the jagged scars began to subside, the fear inside her grew like an incurable cancer. At night, insomnia tormented her; during the days, a boundless exhausting fatigue.

Her future boss at Fitz & Martinelli, where she was to begin her brilliant career as a medical malpractice attorney after graduation, called anxiously to ask how she was doing and whether she could start in September as scheduled or needed more time to convalesce. „I'm fine, she replied. Everything is healing, and I'm taking the exam in three weeks as planned. Thank you for caring."

And she even believed what she was saying. To everyone. Every day. But then suddenly, out of the blue, an immeasurable horror overtook her, reaching for her as if with scrawny claws, so physical she could almost smell it. She could no longer move, breathing became heavy and painful, and everything began to spin. In the subway, she suddenly tasted the gag, felt the cold tip of the knife. In the elevator, she heard his voice, smelled the sickeningly sweet smell of the coconut candles. In the rear-view mirror, she saw the ugly clown grin and felt the latex fingers cold on her neck. Then it was as if time was turned back, and she suddenly found herself back in that night. She tried with all her might to go about her daily routine and live something like a normal life. But days turned into weeks, and she felt the microscopic cracks in her facade deepen and spread. At some point, she realized that it was only a matter of time before she would one day shatter into a million splinters.

After a fortnight in New York, her parents had finally packed their bags and flown back to Boston. Maura's feigned bravado and the platitudes she served her parents with an impenetrable smile had won them over. They hugged and kissed each other goodbye. While waiting for the elevator, her parents asked her once again to come back to California with them.

„I'm fine. Everything is healing, and I'm taking the bar exam in two weeks as scheduled."

Smiling, she waved goodbye as the elevator door closed on her mother's tear-streaked face. Then Maura turned and ran back to her apartment, hastily locking the door. She sat down on the floor and couldn't stop crying for three hours.

She was studying for the exam at home now. It was better than attending lectures and having to endure the stares of complete strangers on the one hand and the questions of well-meaning friends on the other. Instead, the tutor had given her videotapes. Most days she spent surrounded by law texts on the living room carpet, staring at the TV screen with the notepad in her lap.

She saw the professor's mouth move, but the words she heard no longer made sense to her. She just couldn't concentrate and knew she wouldn't pass the exam.

The night before the exam, Michael stayed overnight with her, and at seven in the morning he drove her to the Jacob Javitts Center in Manhattan, where the exam was being held. She signed the list with the other three thousand students, sat in her seat, and at eight o'clock sharp received the thick envelope containing the papers. Concentrated silence descended over the conference room. At 8:05 a.m., Maura looked behind her, beside her, ahead of her, at the sea of unfamiliar faces. Each one frightened her. Panic overtook her. Her head began to pound, she was shaking all over, cold sweat broke out. Nausea overcame her. She raised her hand and was escorted by the attendant to the ladies room. There she stumbled into a stall just before she threw up. Later, she wet her face and neck with cold water, then left the restrooms and walked straight out the convention center gate. At 8:26 a.m., she took a cab home.

Detective Harrison stopped calling, but Maura checked with Special Victims by phone every single day to see how the investigation was going. The answer was always the same. "You can be sure we are actively pursuing every lead, Maura. We hope to have the perpetrator soon. We appreciate your sustained cooperation."

Maura would have bet that the commissioner was reading her daily response from a pamphlet, "Government Information to Reassure Pesky Victims of Unsolved Cases." Days and weeks passed, and there was still no sign of a perpetrator. Maura knew her case was slowly moving toward the archives. Without identification, fingerprints, or other circumstantial evidence, it would most likely remain unsolved unless there was another confession or some similarly unlikely stroke of luck. Still, she called Detective Harrison daily, if only to make her feel guilty and show that she still existed.

After the bar exam fiasco, her relationship with Michael had finally fallen apart. He was outraged because she had walked out without even trying. Since the incident, as he still called it, they hadn't had sex, and by now even holding hands had an artificial flavor. Instead of every evening, he now only came to see her on weekends. And he became more and more uncomprehending that she didn't want to leave the apartment, didn't even want to go out to dinner with him. There was an unspoken icy distance between them that grew daily, and neither of them knew how to find their way back to each other. Maura didn't even know if she wanted to anymore. She had the feeling that Michael secretly blamed her for what had happened. She could see it in his eyes when he looked at her, and especially when he couldn't look at her. And she just couldn't forgive him for that. I wish you'd let me spend the night at your place last night!

Maura assumed that they both knew it was over, but neither wanted to be the one to say it first. Michael was probably afraid of the avalanche of guilt that would overtake him if he drew the line. Maura wondered how she would feel if he eventually opened up to her that he couldn't spend his life with her, even if he would always love her; if they couldn't remain friends. Relief? Guilt? Anger? Sadness? And so the relationship rippled along over the summer, fading more and more in the fall. They saw less and less of each other, and neither complained about it.

At Fitz & Martinelli, they wanted Maura to retake the exam in February and offered her a job as a paralegal for that long. She declined. The very idea that they would talk about her as the "rape victim" in the coffee kitchen there completely overwhelmed her. And in the meantime, she was also a "rape victim who had dropped out of her exams".

At her three-month follow-up, the gynecologist advised her to seek psychological care. "Rape victims carry scars that the rest of us can't see," he said. "Therapy would be advisable to help you cope with all of this."

I'm fine. Everything has healed. I just didn't take the exam like I was supposed to. Thank you for caring. Then she left the practice, vowing never to return.

In October, she applied for a job as a switchboard operator on the night shift at the Marriott Hotel at LaGuardia Airport, a large, round-the-clock hotel with hundreds of employees, none of whom knew who she was. She worked with a headset in a back room, safely shielded from the public and their prying eyes. True, she would hardly meet a man here, and her parents wouldn't be proud if they had known about it. Michael, of course, was appalled by Maura's "lack of ambition," as he put it. But she was granted security by this job during the dreadful hours of the night, and the anonymity in the crowd that Maura needed to avoid intrusive conversations. And she made money. Her shift went from 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m.

She had been there just four weeks when she got the call. It was almost six, and the last hour of her shift had begun.

"Marriott LaGuardia. Reservations desk. How can I help?"

"I'm afraid I missed my flight, and now American Airlines can't get me out of town until tomorrow morning. I guess I need a room. Do you have anything available?"

"I'll check right away, sir. Are you a member of the Marriott Rewards Club?"

"No, I'm not."

"Single room or double?"

"Single."

"Smoking or non-smoking?"

"Non-smoking, please."

"How many people are you traveling with, sir?"

"I'm on my own. Unless you feel like joining me, Maura."

Her heart skipped a beat. She ripped the headphones off her head, threw them to the floor, and stared at them like a cockroach. Adele, the receptionist, joined her in the back, followed by several front desk staff. From the floor, the soft voice could be heard: "Miss? Miss? Hello? Is anyone there?"

"Are you all right?" asked Adele. Maura flinched under her touch.

Had she really heard that?

The cracks were deepening, spreading wider and wider. The facade would crack. She stared at the headset Adele picked up from the floor.

"Hello, sir, excuse me. This is Adele Spates at the front desk. Can I help you?"

Maura backed up to the door and grabbed her purse from the table while Adele took the reservation. The room was spinning. Voices were raised in her head.

A pretty girl like my Maura shouldn't be left alone.

You're so delicious, so right to bite.

If only you'd let me spend the night at your place last night!

You can be sure that we are actively searching for the culprit.

Maura ran across the hotel parking lot as if the devil himself was after her. She had forgotten her coat, and the cold autumn wind swept through her clothes. She sped home along Grand Central Parkway at 75 mp/h, frantically glancing in the rear-view mirror again and again in anticipation of the clown face grinning and winking at her from the car behind her.

She got out of the car and flew to the elevator, passing the security guard sleeping peacefully in the lobby. In her apartment, she flipped on all the lights, armed the alarm system, and locked all the apartment door locks.

Maura was gripped by a fear like she had never experienced before, shaking uncontrollably all over her body. Full of panic, she raced through her rooms, opening every closet, looking under the bed, behind the shower curtain. She retrieved the small .22 caliber pistol from the nightstand drawer that her father had bought for her before he returned to Boston. Carefully, she double-checked to make sure the gun was loaded.

In the living room, the red light from the motion detector and the green light from the alarm system was flashing.

Maura sat on the couch holding the gun in her sweaty hand, in a deadly grip, her index finger playing nervously with the trigger. Cat Tibby crawled under her arm and snuggled against her, purring. The sun was rising, and yellow light crept through the cracks in the drawn curtains. The weatherman had said there was a beautiful day ahead of them. Maura stared at the white apartment door and waited.

The facade had shattered. Into a million splinters.

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Okay, that was a hell of a long prologue. I don't even remember exactly how this one got so long in the first place. It felt wrong to take a shortcut, though, and squeezing over 10,000 words into one chapter would be a little too drastic.

I can tell you, though, that Jane finally gets into the action in the next chapter :-)

Your T73.